gods_goddesses_and_deitieswikiaorg-20200213-history
User blog:ThisIsXenon/The Ennead -- Backstory Fic
Chapter 1: Micah He felt the presence of the person behind him before he heard the footsteps. By the time those echoed down the alleyway, he was already running. “Get back here, you little rat!” Micah’s feet flew across the brick road, arms pumping, hair streaming behind him. The person chasing him, whoever it was, was slower, but not by much. In Asnarox, it was every man, woman, and child for themself. Slave hunters had recently invaded the city, and were constantly prowling to find potential victims. Micah was this man’s latest target. He'd been waiting in the alley where Micah usually scrounged for food scraps, and Micah was now kicking himself for blundering in without checking to see if the alley was occupied. This particular hunter had been watching him for a while, but dared not approach whenever he was around his mother. He felt a hand grab his ponytail, and the hunter yanked him back. “Got you now!” The hunter lifted him up, off the ground by his hair. Micah struggled and kicked, but the hunter held him out far enough that he couldn’t land a hit. “I’ve been watching you,” the hunter grinned. “Dirty little street rat. You’ll fetch a high price for these,” He tugged at the feathers behind Micah’s ears. Micah tried not to cry out. The feathers were the only sign he was a shapeshifter, and they were very sensitive. He tried to keep them hidden—Asnarox wasn’t kind to anyone with magic—but now that the hunter knew what he was, he could shift and fly out of there. He closed his eyes, visualising himself shrinking, arms morphing into wings— A sharp pain in his head brought him back. The hunter shook him again, and his scalp prickled. Micah tried to pull open the hunter’s hand, but his grip was too strong. The hunter laughed. “You’re not getting out that easily.” Micah shifted his shoulders, and felt the small knife he kept in his sleeve fall into his palm. A new idea formed. The hunter began walking back into the alley, towards the road. Micah found the man’s hand again and sliced his knife through the hair right below it. Then he was tumbling down to the ground, and then back on his feet, the hunter yelling angry curses. He burst out of the alley and wove through the crowd at the market. The hunter stopped pursuit and shouted one more insult. That's right, Micah thought. I win again. He glanced around to orient himself. His mother’s market stall was near the God Fountain, the one so weathered and mossy that no one knew which god it honoured. He could see the top of the crumbling fountain down the street, so he darted through empty spaces in the throng. It was claustrophobic, and he was feeling a sliver of panic until he burst through the ring of people around the fountain. Everyone gave it a wide berth. It radiated a creepy, hateful feeling, probably because its patron god wasn’t the one being worshipped. Micah shivered, avoided looking into the statue’s eyes (or was that the back of its head…..) and ducked back into the crowd. Thirty crushed and nervous seconds later, Micah slid into his mother’s stall. Melody was talking with a customer about the cooling weather, hands deftly weaving another one of the flower wreaths she sold. He stood back until she was done. “I know you’re behind me, and I can tell something scared you,” She turned around in her chair, her business face melting into her mom face. He took a tentative step forward, then threw himself into her open arms. “Hey, hey….” She held him tightly, and he buried his face in her sweet-smelling shoulder. “Gods, you’re shaking. What happened?” He shook his head. “Baby, you’ve got to tell me.” He shook his head again. “Was it that slave hunter again?” A sob leapt out of his throat. “Oh, Micah….” She pulled the veil down over the front of the stall, shielding them from the view of the village, and pulled him into her lap. “He grabbed my hair,” Micah said, voice muffled. “He grabbed my hair and I had to cut myself loose.” “Oh, baby,” She fingered the tip of his now-shorter ponytail. He felt hot tears spring up in his eyes. “I'm so sorry.” She rocked him back and forth, and even though he was ten whole years old and figured himself much too old for this, he cried, hard, into his mother's shoulder. ---- Later that night, after getting home from the market around sundown and explaining the whole thing again, Micah and Melody sat in front of the fire. Melody was evening out the ends of Micah's hair. “At least it's still long,” Micah murmured, running his fingers through it gently. His scalp and behind his ears were still sore. Melody had put a minty salve on each spot earlier, and it was starting to wear off. “Still covers your ears,” Melody agreed, setting down her scissors. She stood up and swept the hair clippings into a pile. “How are you feeling?” Micah shrugged. “Come on, I need more than that,” Melody tossed the clippings outside. “You still look shaken.” He didn't answer until she sat down again beside him and pulled him into a tight embrace. “He knew….he knew I was a shifter,” Micah swallowed the lump in his throat. “He knew before today. I tried to keep these….” He brushed the feathers with his fingers, wincing. “....hidden, but I guess it didn't work. If he knows, then who else does?” “Best not worry about that,” Melody kissed the top of his head. “It’ll only cause you more pain. You should get some rest. You've had a long day.” “Are you sure you don't need help with anything?” “I'm sure,” Melody nodded. “I’ll tuck you in and put out the fire and then go to bed myself. But thank you. You are more than I ever could've asked for.” She carried him to the other room in their tiny, hastily-constructed home. As she pulled the handmade quilt up to his chin, he asked: “Can you tell me a story about father?” Melody paused. “What?” “Father. What was he like?” She sat down, a wistful expression flitting across her face. “He was….” she began. “Kind. Intelligent. Awkward, but that made him even more adorable. And so handsome….like you,” She tapped his nose, making him smile. “He loved you even before he laid eyes on you. He probably still loves you now.” “What happened to him?” This was the question Melody never answered. She just shook her head, kissed his forehead, and left, blowing out the candle on his nightstand. ---- That was how life worked. The two rose at dawn, foraged in the forest for food as birds, went to the market during the day, walked home at sundown, and Melody tucked Micah in with a story about his father. Life was peaceful. for a while. One day, Melody and Micah were at home during market time, Micah having dislocated his shoulder during a scuffle with another slave hunter. Melody had just finished putting it back in place when someone pounded on the front door. Melody furrowed her brow. “One moment, baby.” She pulled on her jacket and left the room. Micah stayed where he was, slumped in a chair, head spinning from pain. They’d run out of whatever herbs Melody used to numb pain a couple of weeks ago and hadn't been able to find any more, so Micah had been fully aware as Melody pushed the shoulder back into its socket. It was now so stiff he could barely move it. He heard the door creak as Melody opened it. “He--” A shriek, a thump, the door bursting open, a blast of freezing air angry voices: “Get the witch!” “Tie her up!” “Don't let her get away!” Micah jumped to his feet and peered around the doorway. Melody was on her knees in front of the fireplace, and three men with pitchforks stood around her. One had the prongs of the fork pointed at her face. Melody's eyes flicked to the doorway where Micah stood, and she shook her head almost imperceptibly. Stay there. Micah didn't want to, but he knew Melody was forming a plan, so he did. “So….” One of the men, the village carpenter took a step forward and smirked down at her. “What do you have to say now, witch?” “I am not a witch,” Melody said calmly. “I've done nothing wrong.” “''I'm not a witch, I've done nothing wrong'',” the carpenter mocked. He slapped her across the face. Micah felt a growl rise up in his throat. “Then how do you explain these?” He pulled her hair away from her ears and yanked out a feather. Melody cried out, clapping her hands over the rest of the feathers. “How do you explain these, hm?” The carpenter held it up to the light. Micah saw a bead of blood at the tip. “And how do you explain the other odd things happening in the village? The crops all rot, but your garden stays fresh and green. A swarm of insects destroys the thatching on all the roofs but yours. And then….” His face twitched. “You hate all of us so much that you made my wife die in childbirth!” “I live on the fringe of the village,” Melody shot back. “My garden isn't connected to yours, so the rot couldn't spread to it. And the insect swarm did damage my roof, but we repaired it as soon as it happened to make sure there were no leaks. And--” “We?” The carpenter said, confused. “Oh right, your little bastard child. We always thought it was suspicious when a woman lived alone and then had a child. What say you, woman of the night?” Melody's eyes flashed, but she didn't reply. The carpenter laughed, as did his companions. “Which half-baked farmer is his father? Which one of them spent the night in your bed all those years ago?” “For your information,” Melody said coldly, “I arrived at this village a day before I had my child. And his father….” She closed her eyes. “If I say his name, he will be here in an instant, and he will annihilate you.” “No man can run fast enough to get to you before we do.” “Ah,” Melody said. “He’s no man.” A few things clicked together in Micah’s head. One: Melody never said her father’s name. Since most most powerful beings could sense their names, he’d be able to hear her and be there immediately. Two: Micah’s shapeshifting power was actually more advanced than his mother’s. Most shapeshifting power deteriorated throughout the line if only one parent of a child was a shifter, but if the other parents was a shifter or had some magic, the level of power given to the child was equal or sometimes even greater than that of the parents. Three: the way his mother prayed every morning—hands clasped together and pressed to her chest, kneeling on the dirt floor, face scrunched up like she was really concentrating on something. She never spoke of the gods, but she prayed intensely, most likely to Micah’s father. Four: the fact that Micah’s eyes were purple, which wasn’t normally a colour held by humans. My father is a god. I’m a demigod. '' The men had the same thought. Melody only had time to look over at Micah and say, “Run,” before one of them swung his pitchfork around and slammed it into Melody’s head. Another looked towards the doorway. “There’s the kid!” Micah bolted from the door and slammed it shut, shoving a table under the handle. He tried to open the window, but it was a dual-armed job and he only had use of one. He left it unlocked. The door rattled as whoever was on the other side tried to get through it. Micah looked around, then opened the closet door slightly. He shifted into his smallest bird form--a blackbird--and hopped up on the top shelf. The room door slammed open. Micah watched, through a crack, as the table flew across the room and hit the wall opposite the door. The whole house shook. The men stormed inside--only two of them now, the carpenter missing. “The window!” one cried. “It’s unlocked!” “He must’ve gotten away!” They ran back out. Micah stayed where he was, counting breaths to stave off the panic. ---- He didn’t know how much time passed, but he kept hearing noise from in the house and more angry voices. The closet even opened once, and Micah stayed frozen behind a stack of blankets. Then there was quiet. He watched sunlight move across the floor and eventually fade before he hopped out of the closet. The house was in shambles. The men had torn it apart, probably looking for him and any valuable thing they could find. Grabbing a blanket, Micah left the house. It was night, and the streets were empty. Micah stuck to the shadows, looking for any signs of the men or his mother, even though he already knew where she was. With an ache in his chest, he made his way to the village jail. The jailer was asleep outside the jail, probably a result of he alcohol Micah could smell from several yards away. He tiptoed past, holding his breath. The first few cells were bare, and Micah walked past a few of the jail’s occupants—a pangolin shapeshifter captured from the forest a week before, several chronic drunkards, and a guy who’d been sleeping with the mayor’s son and got caught—before he made it to his mother’s cell. She was slumped against the back wall, with an iron collar around her neck, shivering. The jail fire had gone out, and the night was chillier than the day had been. He gripped the bars of her cell. “Mother?” Melody’s head jerked up, then she winced and rubbed it. “Micah?” “It’s me, Mother, it’s me,” He sank to his knees, letting the icy iron slide through his hands. Melody shuffled forward as far as the chain clipped to her collar would reach, just far enough for her to brush the tips of Micah’s fingers if they both stretched their arms. Her fingers were colder than the bars. “I was worried they’d got you too,” she whispered. “Thank the gods not.” He wanted to say ''They’ll have to work harder to catch me. ''Or I’m good at hiding. Or something remotely optimistic. Instead, he said, “But if they did I’d be with you.” Melody winced again. “Baby, no....” “Why not? We’d be together,” Micah’s voice was getting weaker the longer he looked at Melody’s face. “What are you not telling me?” A long moment of silence, then Melody spoke. “They’re planning to burn me at the stake tomorrow morning.” Micah felt a shudder run down his spine. “No. No.” “I’m going to let them take me—“ “Mother, no, you’ve got to get out tonight.” “—and then when they let me go I’m going to call on your father for help and pray he gets there in time. And you,” Her tone changed, and her face hardened. “You are going to the hollow tree in the forest where the lemongrass grows and you are going to stay there until I get there, understand? Do not come for me.” “But Mother—“ “Do you understand?” Micah bit down hard on his lip, and nodded. “Good. Take this,” She shrugged off her jacket and held it out to him. He took it reluctantly. “And this,” She handed him her knife. “It was a gift from your father. It will help you when you need it most, and he’ll know who you are if you ever show it to him.” “I’m giving it back when I see you again,” Micah pulled on the jacket and clipped the knife to his belt. “I’m not keeping this.” “That’s fine, baby,” Melody said. “That’s fine.” They sat there for a moment, then Micah shifted into a bird, slipped through the bars, shifted back, and threw his arms around his mother’s neck. “Don’t die. You can’t die. You have to come back.” “I will,” Melody said, holding him close. “I will, I promise.” She didn’t sound sure, but Micah had too much trust in her to doubt. —————————- Micah reluctantly left about an hour later, staying in the forest by the tree and worrying. It wasn't until around midnight that he started to get this weird uneasy feeling in his gut. He decided to ignore Melody’s instructions and fly over the village. When he did, he saw smoke. He almost fell out of the sky, but he got over to the village as fast as he could, lungs burning, heart smashing the inside of his ribcage. Thousands of worst-case scenarios flooded his head--his mother being dragged to the pyre, her crying, her burning…. When he got to the village, the entirety of it was on fire. He landed by the jail, the smoke clogging his lungs. He coughed and ran to where his mother was. “Mother!” He could barely see through the smoke, but he heard Melody cough and call his name. He ran into the bars of her cell before he saw her. “Mother!” “Micah, get out of here!” She appeared suddenly out of the haze shoved him away from the bars. “Go!” “I'm not leaving you!” “I'll get out,” Melody assured. “I'll get out.” She coughed violently, falling to her knees and then dragging herself back up. “I’ll make it. I’ll meet you in the forest. Get out of here, I'll make it!” “But what if you don’t?” “I will, baby, just--” “Do you promise?” Micah’s voice cracked. “Promise?” Melody bit her lip. Then she stuck her arms through the bars and pulled him close for a quick moment. She whispered, “promise” in his ear, then shoved him away again. He had no choice but to leave and to hope. ---- He waited. The night faded to day, and he shifted into crow form and circled the forest, watching for any sign of a fellow crow with his mother’s green eyes. He didn’t stop for food or water or rest until it was night again and he was about to pass out from exhaustion. He settled on a branch and tried to catch his breath. His mother was missing and by now the village was reduced to ash. The air stank with the smell of burning tar, wood, metal, and flesh. He’d seen no signs of life. His hunger and thirst were beginning to get uncomfortable, but he shifted back to human form, climbed up the tree, pulled his mother’s jacket around himself more, and continued his vigil, albeit with tears pricking the corners of his eyes. Something in his chest was telling him that the vigil was useless, that his mother was gone, but he shoved it down with the other uncomfortable feelings and focused on watching the skies. His eyelids were heavy, his body aching, and then all of a sudden the sun was rising and he could hear footsteps. He shifted back to crow form. The person was walking quietly, and he was surprised he’d picked them up. They were brisk, probably bootsteps, and whoever it was muttered to themself angrily. Micah fluttered down to a lower branch. She walked into his line of sight. She was short, young, with ashy blonde hair tied in pigtails, looking around with glittering cobalt eyes. Her cloak flowed behind her like a wrathful liquid shadow. Her eyes slid right over him, then she did a double take. Micah froze. “A crow….” She walked closer, her face softening. “Hey, little birdie,” He hopped back. “No, no, I’m not gonna hurt you.” He was shaking all over. “Don’t be afraid. Here,” She dug something out of her pocket, then opened her hand. Breadcrumbs. Micah’s stomach rumbled. “Are you hungry? You must be, there’s no food around. But then again, crows are resourceful. That’s why I like them so much,” She stood on her toes. “Your choice.” Against his better judgement, he hopped close enough to grab a breadcrumb. Her other hand moved so fast he didn’t have time to react, closing around him and pinning his wings to his body. He cawed an alarm cry, but she held him tighter. “I know you’re a shifter,” she said. “Detransform or I will crush you.” He kept struggling, and she braced her thumb against his neck. “Now.” He stopped, blinked once, then shifted back. Her hand sprang open, and he fell back. His head thumped against the ground and his vision spun, but he scrambled to his feet. His mother’s knife was in his hand, and the hilt was glowing. “Oh, you’re a kid,” Her nose wrinkled. She stepped closer to him, and he thrust the knife out, hand shaking. “I guess I could use you." “I’m not going with you anywhere,” Micah snarled. “Where else are you gonna go, huh?” Hester crossed her arms. “Your village is ash and you’re the only survivor. You’ll die within a week if you don’t stay with me.” “What makes you think that there were no more survivors?” His voice shook. “How do you know no one else got out?” “I’ve been scouring the forest since the fire. You’re the only one who got out. I’m not going to argue with you about this,” She pulled out a knife of her own. “You come with me or I’ll kill you now.” His breath scraped in the back of his throat, his brain flicking through scenarios and possibilities and still denying the fact that his mother might’ve died. Slowly, he shoved the knife back in its sheath. She put away her own knife, knowing she'd won. “What’s your name?” “Micah.” “Hello, Micah,” She smiled down at him, eyes cold. “My name is Hester Knox, and you work for me now.” ---- They made their way through the forest for the rest of the day. Hester said nothing. She didn't interact with him, except to check to make sure he was still following her. They stopped for nothing, no food, no water, not any time to rest. By noon, he was about to collapse from hunger and exhaustion. In a clearing, she stopped. Micah almost ran into her, but stopped just short. She turned around an inspected him. “You look like you're going to pass out.” Micah tried to reply, but all his dry throat could manage was a cough. She waved her hand for him to follow again and walked off. ''I'm not gonna make it, he thought, trailing behind her. She’s trying to wear me out until I die. This part of the forest was less clear, without a path at all. Hester produced a long knife from somewhere--probably her coat--and hacked through the brush. His legs ached. His head hurt. His shoulder throbbed, his arm stiff. When he could hear the sound of running water, Hester stopped again. “What's that sound?” She asked. “Water.” “Good. Where is it?” He tried to pinpoint the sound, and pointed to their left. “Go find it.” He stumbled off. Hester smiled as she watched him go. ---- After thirty minutes of fruitless searching, he came back. “Did you find it?” Hester hadn't moved. He shook his head. “Try looking somewhere else.” “I can't.” “Why not?” “I'm so….” He dropped to his knees, head spinning. Hester stared down at him coldly. “You’re so what?” “Tired. Dizzy. I feel sick” His tongue felt thick and dry in his mouth. “Everything’s so bright….” “When’s the last time you had water or anything to eat?” It was hard to calculate, but he came up with, “Three days ago?” Hester’s brow wrinkled. “No wonder you’re in such bad shape. Hang on. Stay here and don’t die.” She traipsed off to the right, pulling a canteen from her coat. Micah hugged his stomach with his good arm and waited. When she came back, she was whistling. She tossed him the canteen, and he reached for it and caught it. “So you’re right handed,” she said. “Uh,” He stuck the canteen between his knees and tried to open it. “Sort of. I use both hands.” “For everything or just to write?” “Everything.” “Can you catch as well with your other arm?” “Not right now,” His Hand slipped around the cap and he cursed under his breath. “It’s not really working.” “It’s not working?” “I dislocated it a few days ago and it won’t move now.” Hester sighed. She walked over, knelt beside him, opened the canteen, and handed it to him. Face burning, he accepted it and drank. “Slowly,” she advised. “So you don’t bring it all back up later.” He nodded, and she looked over his shoulder. The water was cool and instantly soothing. Hester prodded at his shoulder, and a lash of pain raced down his arm. He winced. Hester pulled something else out of her coat—a small clay pot. She unscrewed it. Inside was a pool of strong-smelling oil. “This should loosen up your muscles enough for me to put your arm in a sling,” she said. “There, it’ll heal, better than it will with you swinging it when you walk. Take your left arm out of your jacket and I’ll do that now.” He set down the canteen carefully, and tugged his arm out of his sleeve. Hester pushed up his shirt sleeve and dipped her fingers in the thick liquid. “Warning, this might hurt.” She rubbed in the oil, pressing harder than he thought necessary. He gritted his teeth, spots popping in his vision. “How old are you?” Hester asked. “Ten.” “Wow. You’re even younger than I thought. I’m seventeen. My family kicked me out, so I’m going to get them back. Somehow.” Her fingers dug in too far, and he yelped and jerked away. “Whoops, sorry.” She rolled his sleeve back down. “That should loosen up within the next hour. While we wait….” She dug in her coat again and handed him a strange, round, red fruit. He stared at it sceptically. “What?” “What is this?” “You’ve never seen an apple before?” “Apple?” “Oh my gods, did you live under a rock? Did you even eat fruit?” “Sometimes,” Micah replied, sniffing the apple gently. “Mostly berries. How do I—“ “Just bite into it,” Hester shook her head and chuckled at him. “Here, let me show you.” She pulled out another one and bit into it, making a crisp crunching noise. He copied her hesitantly, sinking his teeth into the shiny skin. Sweetness burst from the flesh, as did a whole bunch of juice, which trickled down his chin. Hester laughed at his surprised expression. “Do you like it?” Micah hesitated, then nodded vigorously, making her laugh again. ---- She wasn’t a terrible travelling companion after that. She tied his arm up gently, and he showed her the best wildberries, and then they were friendlier towards each other. He actually began to enjoy her company, even though it was forced. He would’ve preferred to have his mother several times over, but it was better than being alone. By sundown, they reached a trading village. Hester got more supplies: bags, bedrolls, more clothing for Micah, and a couple of knives from a weapons tent. “We’ll get food tomorrow, before we get back on the road,” she said. “For now the inn.” She managed to get a room with two beds, and hung a sheet between them for privacy. “I’m going down for dinner,” she said. “You coming or no?” He shook his head. She shrugged, probably sensing his exhaustion, and ruffled his hair. “Night, then.” “Good night.” She left and closed the door gently behind her Micah sat down on his bed and tried to process everything. His mother was missing (Not dead! his brain kept screaming). His village was completely gone and everyone in it was dead. He was gods-knew-how-far away from it in a place he didn’t know with some strange, semi-angry teenager who he was now working for, somehow. Also, he was a demigod, apparently, according to his mother. His breath came faster. There was nothing to go back to. That’s why Hester had left him alone. There was nowhere to run, so why run? Especially if the person you were running from was friendly. It was getting harder to breathe, the more he thought about it. He hugged his chest. This happened sometimes, where he got so worked up from worrying or thinking too hard about something that he got dizzy and couldn’t breathe. But his mother was always there to calm him down, and she wasn’t here now. Instantly, he felt worse. He was completely at the mercy of whatever was making this happen, with no help. He felt a sob clog his throat. No, stop. He couldn’t cry like that anymore. Water welled up in his eyes. No. He bit down hard on his tongue, but that only made it worse. Hester hadn’t even been gone five minutes and he was already cracking. He kicked off his boots and pulled his knees up to his chest. Cry now, and you’ll be done when she gets back. That was all it took. ---- When she got back, he was asleep. She peered carefully around the sheet, watching his breathing. His face was shiny, like he'd cried himself to sleep. Poor kid. She’d gotten him to trust her, that was evident by the way he had his back to the sheet. Or maybe he didn't realise it. He still had his knife on him, or he'd hidden it where she couldn't see. So his loyalties were questionable, but at least he was still here. I'm doing ''something right at least.'' He'd understand later why all of this had to be done. People said to take initiative if you wanted to do something, and she had. She'd done nothing wrong. Bad things just happened because of what she did. They weren't her fault. And if he didn't realise that….well, he couldn't do anything about it. She studied him more. He was scrawny, short for his age, but she guessed that was because he hadn't been properly fed for most of his life. Scrawny and short aren't irreversible things, though. He'd grow soon enough, once she got to Illakhana and settled down. And her training would make him stronger. That was certain. She wanted to start soon, maybe even tomorrow. “Oh, Micah,” she whispered, turning back around. “You'll make a wonderful assassin.” ---- She woke him up from a nightmare three hours later. “Micah!” Her hand was rough on his shoulder. His eyes snapped open and he pushed her away, knife jumping into his hand. “Whoa whoa, it's me.” He blinked away sleep and sat up. The dim light filtering through the curtains threw strange shadows across Hester's face. “You've got one hell of a set of lungs,” Hester rubbed her face. “Gods. That was scary.” “What?” His voice was hoarse. “You were screaming in your sleep,” Hester said bluntly. “Is that normal for you?” “No.” “Okay, good,” She sighed, shaking her head slightly. “Gods. Gods. I'm still shaking. How about you?” His whole body was quivering, but he shrugged. “You okay?” Another shrug. He felt his eyes start to well up, and he ducked his head. He wasn't going to cry in front of her. “You sure?” He nodded. She sat down next to him. Nightmares weren't a regular thing, but they weren't irregular either. He had them once or twice in a month, and usually his mother woke him up or comforted him in his sleep until whatever it was passed. “It was just a dream, you know,” Hester brushed her bangs out of her eyes. “But it wasn't,” Micah replied. “My village really did burn down, everything really is gone, and my mother….” He couldn't finish. “Oh, it was one of those,” Hester winced. “Gods. I'm sorry, Micah.” He shrugged again. She put her hand on his shoulder gingerly, something that reminded him of what his mother might do, and all of a sudden he was crying again. “Hey, hey, calm down,” Hester said, sounding startled. Micah covered his face with his hands. Hester hugged him awkwardly, and he tried to catch his breath. “It's gonna be okay. You're gonna be okay.” Her arms would have felt more comforting had something now been slightly off. Micah didn't know what it was, but it made him feel trapped. He pushed out of her embrace, shoved the rest of the wayward emotion away and took a deep breath. “I don't think either of us are going to get any more sleep,” Hester said, sighing again. “Let's keep going. We still have a lot of ground to cover.” Chapter 2--Clay note that this is an unfinished chapter BUT i'm posting what i've got done anyway He’d never been one for fights, but when very personal property was on the line, he was ready to hurt a whole mob to get it back. “Give. That. Back.” “What are you gonna do about it?” Evan dangled the scarf above Clay’s head. “Cry? Call your daddy? Try and punch me? Won’t hurt, since you’re just a little girl.” “I’m not a girl!” Clay protested, jumping to try and grab the scarf. Evan moved it out of reach. Behind him, Eric and Edmund laughed, which only encouraged Evan. “Oh sure, that’s what you say, but your body and your name say otherwise, Claire.” The name felt like a physical slap to the face. Clay felt tears prick in his eyes. “Aw, she’s crying, poor little baby,” Eric sneered. “You can’t be a boy if you’re gonna cry,” Edmund said. “Just give me back my scarf!” Clay said, voice threatening to break. His hands were shaking as he tried another swipe and the soft red fabric. “Make me,” Evan growled. Clay blinked once, got an idea, and kicked Evan in the groin. Evan grunted and doubled over, hand releasing the scarf. Clay snatched it and ran, not looking back, not watching as Edmund and Eric debated on what to do, then pursued as Evan yelled, “GO GET HER GO GET THAT LITTLE BITCH!” Clay hugged the scarf and kept running. It was so long that it would trip him up if he didn’t have it wrapped enough times, and the long ends threatened to catch around his feet now. He gathered it up, pausing for a moment, which gave Eric and Edmund enough time to catch up and grab him. Hands connected with his shoulder blades, shoving him into the gravel road. He didn’t let go of the scarf to catch himself, and the sharp rocks sliced against his face and his hands. “Got her!” Clay hunched into a ball, but Eric pushed him onto his back. Edmund held him down, and Evan was back, standing over him. Clay clutched at the scarf. “You’re gonna pay for that,” Evan snarled. Seven mind-numbingly painful punches to the face later, Evan, Edmund, and Eric walked away, laughing, calling “if you tell, we’ll do it again!” over their shoulders. Clay could barely see through the stars clouding his eyes, but he still had his scarf. That was what mattered. He wiped blood and tears off his face with his sleeve and rolled on his side, curling up and burying his face in the scarf. He was too dizzy to get up. The smell, woodsmoke and soap and a slight spiciness that never went away, was clear and comforting. He scrunched his face and squeezed his eyes shut. I’m okay. I’m okay. I’m not lying in the middle of the road and being completely ignored. I’m safe and at home and I have my scarf-'' He heard footsteps, felt the gravel shift, and someone stepped over him. He looked up slightly to see the back of his aunt’s boots retreating. Aunt Eloise. Not stopping. Defeated, he tucked his face back into the soft fabric, hiding the fresh round of tears. —————————— He dragged himself into the house a couple of hours later. The family—all of it, all seven aunts and uncles, thirty cousins, two grandparents, and his father—was in the dining room, so he snuck up the back stairs and into his and his dad’s room. At least, he tried. “Claire.” He flinched and stopped halfway up the step. “It’s Clay,” he heard his father’s voice rumble. “For the last time, Mother.” “Clay, Claire, whatever, your child is late to dinner, Enoch,” The disapproval in his grandmother’s voice was palpable. Clay didn’t move. “I’d like an explanation.” His father sighed. “Clay, come here please?” Clay tugged at the ends of his scarf and shuffled into the dining room, chin tucked to his chest. That didn’t hide all of the scratches and ugly purple bruises on his face, and he could hear Evan, Eric, and Edmund sniggering. “That’s a hell of a black eye,” Uncle Ernest said. “Your face is dirty,” his grandmother looked down her long nose at him, cobalt eyes glittering. Clay felt his face warm. He shuffled closer to his father’s side. “Oh, that’s not just dirt,” Enoch murmured. “What happened?” The sniggering across the table stopped abruptly, and he could feel three sets of eyes staring him down, daring him to say what really happened. ''They pushed me. They beat me up. They hurt me again. They stole my scarf and they beat me up and-'' “I fell,” he mumbled. “You fell,” Enoch repeated, sounding skeptical. “She was laying in the middle of the road earlier,” Aunt Eloise said. “Lazy brat.” “Stop attacking my son, Eloise,” Enoch said cooly. “Clay, go upstairs, I’ll be there in a minute.” Clay nodded and left the room, climbing the stairs slowly. He could hear his father saying ''You all know ''his name is Clay and has been this way for years, goddammit.'' He almost tripped on the last step and maneuvered down the hall to his room. He poured water in the washbasin and dipped a rag in it, wrung it out, and wiped the dust and dirt off his face. The cuts burned, and he forced down a fresh wave of tears at the pain. There was a light knock at the door. Clay mumbled a “come in” and turned away from the door. He heard it open, and someone stepped in. “Tell me what actually happened to your face,” Enoch said. “Because I don’t believe for a second that you got all that damage from a fall.” “It’s not a big deal,” Clay said, tucking his face into his scarf. “Yes it is, Clay,” Enoch said gently. “Come here.” Clay walked over, eyes down. Enoch knelt, tilted his face up and examined the wounds up close. “Was it your cousins again? Evan and Eric and Edmund?” “Yeah,” Clay said quietly. “They took my scarf and I had to get it back.” “Oh, Clay,” Enoch brushed hair out of his face. “I’m so sorry. That’s....I’ll talk to Eloise about them.” “No!” Clay cried. “No no no don’t! They told me not to tell anyone or they’d hurt me again! You can’t tell her you can’t—“ “Whoa, whoa,” Enoch said. “Slow down. Breathe a minute. They said they’d hurt you again if you told?” Clay nodded, sniffling. “That just means they’re afraid of what their mother will do if she hears. But I won’t say anything,” he finished quickly. “I won’t say it if you don’t want me to. I just don’t want you to get hurt.” He hugged Clay. “I don’t want you to be scared for your safety.” Clay felt like crying again, but Evan’s words—''you can’t be a boy if you’re gonna cry''—rang through his head. He bit down hard on his tongue. “And it’s okay to cry,” Enoch seemed to have read his mind. “But Evan said that boys don’t—“ “Evan doesn’t get to speak for all boys,” Enoch said fiercely. “Look,” He held Clay at arm’s length. Clay saw tears in his eyes too. “Look. I’m crying. I’m getting emotional, and that’s okay. Everyone cries, Clay. Don’t ever discount your emotions because someone says that boys aren’t supposed to cry or be upset or emotional, okay?” When Clay didn’t answer, he repeated himself. “Okay?” “Okay.” “That’s my boy,” Enoch hugged him, voice choking up. “Don’t ever let anyone force you into something you’re not.” They hugged and cried for a good while before Enoch said, “I just remembered, I have good news. I talked to the healer this morning.” “You did?” “I did.” Enoch grinned. “She asked me if she could take you as an apprentice.” “Really?” “Really.” “What did you say?” “I said certainly, as long as I’m allowed to visit you without having to get hurt,” Enoch replied. “Oh my gods, thank you.” Clay hugged him again. “I love you so much.” “I love you too,” Enoch replied. “I love you too.” —————————— That night, Clay was so excited he couldn’t sleep. He’d dreamed of being a healer for the longest time, ever since the day his dad broke his arm and Clay watched as the town’s healer set it and wrapped it up, calm and deliberate. She’d explained what she was doing and Clay marvelled at her knowledge on seemingly every ailment. He spent a lot of time in her hut, watching, learning everything he could. Eventually, as he got older, she started teaching him stuff: uses of herbs, symptoms of different sicknesses, what to do when someone gets hurt before you can get to a healer. And now she wanted him as her formal apprentice....He rolled over in his bed and pulled his pillow over his face to hide his crazy grin. Enoch’s mattress creaked. “Clay, are you still awake?” “Yeah.” “You alright?” “Yeah. Just super excited about tomorrow.” “I’d bet you are, but you do really need some sleep.” Enoch sat up. “I’m going downstairs to make a cup of tea, do you want any?” “Yes, please.” Enoch kissed his forehead before leaving the room. Clay tried to slow his breathing and relax himself. He felt knotted up inside with excitement, but there was something else there too, worry, gnawing. Why am I nervous about the apprenticeship? ''He wasn’t, not really, he knew the healer very well and she always treated him kindly. ''So if not about that, then what? '' He moved the pillow away. His dad had been gone for a few minutes, not abnormally long. The air smelled slightly smoky, but the window wasn’t open. ''Maybe he burned something.... He got out of bed and opened the door. Immediately, a puff of smoke hit him in the face. He coughed and pulled his scarf over his face. This isn’t cooking smoke.... He stumbled through the haze. There was light up ahead, and heat. His heart started thumping. Fire. There’s a fire. He backed away, head spinning. I have to get out of here....but Dad is downstairs. That hit him suddenly and painfully. He’s down there with the fire and the smoke and what if he’s hurt? What if he’s unconscious because of the smoke or he hit his head or something? What if he’s trapped and waiting for someone to help him? I have to find him. '' He continued down the hallway, coughing from the smoke. The floorboards creaked more than usual. He banged on doors as he went past, trying to wake people up, trying to get down the hall through the smoke, and the floor definitely felt unstable. ''I’m gonna die. I’m gonna die. '' The smoke was unbearable. ''Why is this hallway so long? He stopped, leaned on the wall, slid to the floor, eyes watering. I should turn back. He’s probably fine. I should get out through my window. He couldn’t remember which way to go back. It was so hot, and so hard to see— The floor gave. Category:Blog posts Category:Backstory